


still with weakness

by insistentbass



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-02
Updated: 2012-07-02
Packaged: 2017-11-20 13:36:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/585937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insistentbass/pseuds/insistentbass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock replies, as if he’s just realised that the plane of tendons under his assault actually belongs to a living human, and sometimes humans need explanations for things like randomly massaging your perfectly heterosexual flatmate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	still with weakness

“-because you just had tea with a sodding psychopath!”

Which is a fair enough reason to be pissed off, John thinks. Especially after racing through the streets of London on the premise of a cut off phone call, with several not so good scenarios playing through his head - Sherlock with a gun to his temple, trapped and helpless and ready to blow out his pretty brains; Sherlock getting beaten by thuggish brutes, his face blueing, bones breaking; Sherlock lying in a pool of blood on Baker Street’s kitchen floor with Moriarty standing, _smiling_ , over him. Sherlock, _dead_.

The consulting detective and criminal sitting down to tea, though - well, that one hadn’t quite crossed John’s mind.

“Don’t be jealous, John, we drink tea together all the time”

“I’m not - _oh for God’s sake”_ John throws his arms up in utter frustration, leans his head back against the neck of the armchair and breathes steadily through his nose for a few moments. “You know what I mean , _you know_.”

And Sherlock _does_ know, John can hear him shifting around behind him, lingering at the edge of the kitchen and the edge of reasoning. There is no possible excuse for letting a murdering mad-man wander into your living room, other than -

“I had no choice, John.” Sherlock mumbles, low, through the hollow of his throat.

John barely hears his words, only picks them up because his ears have attuned to the silent and desperate way that Sherlock sometimes speaks unappealing truths. It could of course mean _I had no choice, he would have killed me_ \- but John knows better than that, knows that Moriarty won’t kill Sherlock because it’s just too easy, too mundane, too tragically ordinary.  No, it’s more like; _I had no choice, he’s winning_.

“Yeah, I know” John concedes, scrubbing his face with both hands until tiny spiders of light dance mockingly before his eyes. “I just. I don’t like this. Sherlock, I _really_ don’t.”

Christ, his whole body feels wired, strung out, on the edge of physical endurance; except it’s not, he’s fine, they’re _both_ fine, living, breathing. The weight of what is to come, though, is steadily settling over them, in the grooves of Sherlock’s forehead and the wells of John’s skin. It’s under his fingernails; heavy, soil, organic, spreading like disaster.

It’s obvious, _burgeoning_ , driving a sure and steady wedge between them, with everything John doesn’t know and everything that Sherlock can’t tell him (or won’t). The sheer volume of information and apprehension and what ifs and _how are we possibly getting out of this one alive?_ \- it’s too much, rattles through John’s very bones and seeps into his marrow.

When Sherlock presses his hips into the back of the chair and rests two sure, strong hands on his shoulders, John doesn’t flinch. He simply breathes a bit more, sharp and huffy through his nostrils because he’s still (as he mostly  always is) annoyed, and can feel the tension bubbling beneath Sherlock’s firm grip.

“He’s just a man, John.”

“A man with a world full of dangerous criminals at his beck and call? Yeah, just your average guy.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply for a moment, instead John feels him squeeze his shoulders tightly, and this time he _does_ flinch; at the unexpected pressure to his sore muscles and the quiet thrum of pleasurable calmness that follows.

“Still a man. Still with weakness.” Comes the reply, hummed, whispered across the top of John’s defiantly greying hair.

John remains silent through the invasion of his personal space, mostly because he doesn't agree but _wants_ to. Everyone can be broken, it’s just that he can’t seem to find the chink in Moriarty’s defence, the loose brick, the pressure point. What’s even more worrying though, the one detail unbalancing the whole thing - by the shimmering glow of a dark pool, under the scrutiny of hidden snipers, with John’s body caked in explosives - Sherlock had revealed his own.

His own plethora of faults, fragile deficiencies, laid bare and shameless - the sum of a thousand and one ways to shatter Sherlock Holmes.  John is a modest man, humble, but even he will not deny the truth when it is so painfully _there_. And the problem with bearing the title of Sherlock's One Weakness is the huge amount of pureguilt that comes with it; the worry of being the one defect in this genius, this marvellously clever man, the tiny stone that Sherlock stumbles on, the reason, _eventually_ , that he loses.

“Stop thinking, John, you’ll hurt yourself.”

There’s no sarcasm in Sherlock’s words, and John is glad of it; so thankful that on rare occasions such as these, the man knows exactly the _wrong_ thing to say, and exactly the _right_ way to say it.

Due to all of the above, John doesn’t stop Sherlock’s hands as they work his shoulders; as the pads of his dextrous fingers circle and knead the muscle through the thin of his cheap shirt. In fact, he finds his head lulling forwards, his lids drooping and falling shut over his eyes, lips parting to breathe, circulatory; _in, out._

He’s not sure how, (maybe a bit), but somehow Sherlock takes those signs of physical and mental drainage as a cue to work his shoulders more vigorously; leaning his whole lower weight against the back of the chair to angle his grip more efficiently, to get more power behind his arms and better massage the hell out of John’s muscles- and, wait, massage? No. _Nooo_.

“Sherlock, I don’t-“ John bites back a breathy groan as those annoyingly intelligent fingers find a particularly tender spot between his shoulder blades. “I don’t like massages, actually”

Apparently that means absolutely nothing though, because Sherlock continues, ignores him or perhaps just doesn’t give a shit what he says. The latter, more likely. Either way, John is subjected to another bout of intense squeezing and rubbing and lovely, delicious pressure. _I really don’t like massages,_ he thinks, except the voicing part goes out the window as the flat of Sherlock’s thumbs venture to the bare skin at the nape of his neck, and circle gentle patterns over the fine fluff at his hairline.

“Don’t be ridiculous, you’re a doctor. Massages are standard practice for muscle aches and gathered tension.” Sherlock replies, as if he’s just realised that the plane of tendons under his assault actually belongs to a living human, and sometimes humans need explanations for things like randomly massaging your perfectly heterosexual flatmate.

Now John thinks about it, yes, he _is_ a doctor and yes, things like this _do_ work wonders for pent up emotion and the whole load of crap he’s been carrying around for the last few months. And actually, it feels, regrettably, _great._ John can pretty much live with the awkwardness of knowing that he’s only ever attempted a massage once, with huge disappointment, _with a woman_ , if it means that Sherlock will keep working his magic. That is, until -

“Hm, take your shirt off.”

John splutters indignantly because, _err what?_ And also Sherlock’s hands have gone, too, what’s that all about?

“I’m really good, thanks. I like my shirt on.”

Which isn’t meant to be as high pitched and ridiculous as it comes out, but Sherlock blanks his refusal anyway, and reaches around to flick open his collar buttons.

“What are you-? Sherlock!”

John grabs at his hands instantly because he’s _not_ taking his goddamn shirt off, plus even if he is, he’s doing it off his own accord, and anyway - _it’s not coming off!_ Sherlock withdraws at his clawing and John can mentally picture him placing his hands on his hips behind him, all ‘stop being ridiculous’ and wondering why he’s being such a prude, probably.

There are a few moments of silence, where John clings protectively to his shirt collar and can hear Sherlock behind him, concocting some sort of evil plan. Perhaps he’ll settle for relentless badgering, as he usually does; go on and on until John gives in, or perhaps says his name in that _particular_ way that always manages to turn him into an idiotic blob of submission. But no, turns out this time it’s going to be via pure, unadulterated _blackmail_ that Sherlock gets his way.

Seeking hands return to John’s shoulders and he has no choice, really, no way of escaping the divine pressure of skillful fingers, of wicked hands that know how to do so many things, truly _fantastic_ things, maybe. Trying desperately not to think of those certain things, John finds himself leaning back into his touch, the death grip on his own shirt collar going lax, and both hands falling to rest eventually on the arm of the chair.

Yeah, he probably maybe _definitely should_ stop the one sneaky hand that Sherlock has slid round to the front of his neck, that’s deftly flicking open buttons while the other devilishly distracts. It’s all very not good, very incriminating, because John can feel the stirrings of pleasure other than muscular, somewhere hidden in the strings of his veins. But hell, lord and everything, _it feels good_.

Only moments later and John’s shirt is pretty much off, despite earlier forgotten protests; pushed off his shoulders and stuffed as well as possible down into the small gap between the sofa and the rest of his back. John would be worried about exposure - about the fact that he’s nearly half naked with his best friend’s hands moulding into the tight skin of his shoulders, the soft curve of his neck - but somehow he’s not, _somehow_ , he’s more concerned about how Sherlock is possibly going to reach the rest of his back whilst it’s hidden by armchair.

“Sherlock-“

“Yes, sofa.”

Praise whatever gods are shining down on him now that John doesn’t have to finish his sentence, that Sherlock moves quickly to the sofa, beckons him with a quirked eyebrow, and thankfully doesn’t say _kindly come over here so I can continue to massage you_.

John practically _stumbles_ over. Everything be dammed, why should he care? No one else is here, no one else will know of this - the only judge is his own conscience and right now, frankly, that can _do one_.

“Sit down”

Not meeting Sherlock’s eyes, John seats himself next to him as best he can on the sofa, turns his back and folds one leg in front of himself, the other placed firmly on the floor. The noise of movement tells him that Sherlock has pushed himself up and onto his knees behind him, towering over John even more than usual. A bit unnerving, actually, now he has a second to think about it.

But then mercifully, Sherlock’s hands make contact with his skin, and though John had expected everything to _shift_ and jump at the touch, instead it almost settles; hums quietly through his bloodstream as fingers begin to work the tops of his shoulders again.

For lack of anything else to do in such a position, John bows his head forwards again, allows Sherlock access to the vulnerable expanse of his neck, catches his breath for a heartbeat as one of the man’s nails (accidentally?) catches the sensitive skin. Then, two rough palms smooth down his spine; come to rest at the back of his ribs and John swears, _he swears_ that Sherlock inhales sharply, before he pushes his fingers into flesh and muscle again, kneads and presses and works until thoroughly satisfied.

No one’s spoken for a while, now, and it’d be really awkward if it wasn’t already so impossibly _weird_. The not speaking kind of makes it better, easier somehow. The only noises are John’s regular, forced breathing, and the small quiet exhales from Sherlock each time he presses with renewed vigour. Those fingers are working their way steadily towards the base of John’s spine, raising goosebumps across his skin, and he finds himself _willing_ them to go further.

Something dark and tempting coils low in John’s stomach and he knows what it is, can feel himself arching back into Sherlock’s hands, his own braced against the arm of the sofa, offering some resistance to the force of the man’s touch. It’s maddening, insane, and all John can think of is how brilliant Sherlock would feel _everywhere_.

“John”

It’s just one word but it’s the deep soul echoing baritone of Sherlock’s voice that makes John’s whole body stand instantly to attention, makes him run his tongue across his lip to steady himself.

But Sherlock knows what he’s doing, must do, is angling his mouth perfectly close enough to John’s ear to make him the only sound heard, the only one _important_ enough to be heard. Hands that had been tracing careful patterns into John’s muscles have stilled, palms poised either side of his torso, fingertips grazing his chest. It’s a question, made up of doubt. There’s a line, running prominently and clearly between Sherlock’s rested touch and the waistband of John's jeans, a line crowded with _what happens next_ and _how are we doing this_.

John has no room for that, no brain space to contemplate what’s actually going on and what he _wants_. Such fear, such real danger surrounds them both right now that it’s hard, physically impossible, not to let this happen. John has no way of mustering any will to stop it, or think about the consequences at all, and Sherlock obviously just doesn’t care about them. Which is actually good, because John can’t find the time - between breathing and not touching Sherlock back - to think about idiotic things like regret.

All he has the capacity to concentrate on is the etching of Sherlock’s fingers into his skin, into his nerves and ligaments and his blood; John would have Sherlock wrap around every inch available, every neuron and hidden crevice of his brain, every part of himself that even _he_ does not have access to.

John swallows; moves a hand to Sherlock’s and lightly scrapes his nails over the straining whites of his knuckles.

“Yes _._ ”

  


  



End file.
